


don't come home for christmas (you're the last thing I wanna see underneath the tree)

by technicolouredmonochrome



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, christmas sweaters and heartbreak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 21:10:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/technicolouredmonochrome/pseuds/technicolouredmonochrome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael really hates two things: Gavin Free and christmas sweaters (not necessarily in that order; not necessarily together).</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't come home for christmas (you're the last thing I wanna see underneath the tree)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for swagfable (shaley) to the song _Yule Shoot Your Eye Out_ by Fall Out Boy.  
>  Merry (belated) Christmas! (Hope you like it!)

Michael really hates two things: Gavin Free and christmas sweaters (not necessarily in that order; not necessarily together). Never mind that Gavin Free is his (supposed) boyfriend, or that he’s currently standing at the airport and watching him vanish into the glass sliding doors that leads to _fucking England_ because Gavin is apparently a mummy’s boy and needs to spend the christmas holidays (their first _together_ , goddammit) with his family.

And he won’t fucking bring Michael along (even though he bought the ticket and surprised him three nights ago immediately after the most mind-blowing sex _ever_ ) because he’s not ready to come out. And Michael’s been waiting forever for him to be ready but he just never is.

Which led to a lot of screaming (because that’s how Michael solves things) and running (because that’s how _Gavin fucking Free_ solves things) that resulted in a whole lot of _nothing_ , no compromise, _nothing_ , except Gavin is leaving for Britain today and they still haven’t talked about anything and Michael is still staring at the doors that closed a long time ago and Geoff is probably starting to get worried.

“Hey man, you okay?”

His hand is a heavy weight on his shoulder, and Michael resists the urge to shrug it off and clenches his fist a little tighter instead.

“Yeah,” and he can’t look him in the eye. “Yeah I’m good.”

 

_These are your good years, don't take my advice_

_You never wanted the nice boys anyway_

_And I'm of good cheer 'cause I've been checking my list_

_The gifts you're receiving from me will be_

 

The christmas sweater thing started when he was ten.

His grandma was a nasty old lady, who chewed tobacco and kicked puppies for a living (no kidding, he saw her kicking the neighbours’ puppy one christmas she came over, and was fucking terrified of her ever since). The year he was ten, she came over in all her trench coat-ed glory and dumped her shoes on Michael as she ambled into the living room, dropping into the chair that the Joneses siblings usually shared every christmas. They weren’t going to sit in that armchair this christmas, not with the nicotine stench that’s now embedded in the fucking cushions.

He dragged her shoes outside as both his older brothers hefted in huge luggages that could barely fit through their door. When they passed Michael, he swears there was the stench of something bad in there, like a _rotting human corpse_ , which immediately causes him to gag and drop her shoes with a loud clatter.

“Watch it!” she screams from her place in the living room, because she is fucking omnipresent that’s what she is. He screws up his nose and picks up her shoes again (that smell no better) and dumps it outside, quickly running to the bathroom to wash off the horrible smell that is clinging to the tips of his fingers.

It takes five washes for his hand to smell like _soap_.

When he goes back to join the rest of the family, his siblings are all there, lined up in a neat row as grandma gave them each a once over, critically assessing them with her (he suspects) one good eye. “Like a fucking pirate,” he whispers, but it’s not good enough because she has enhanced hearing or some bullshit that makes her stare straight at Michael with her teeth bared.

“Watch that language kiddo.”

Michael really _hates_ being called ‘kiddo’, something that comes with being the youngest in a family of too many children, so he pouts and growls softly under his breath. She ignores him in favour of unzipping her giant suitcases.

“Presents for everyone!” she declares, grinning through her yellowed and decaying teeth, making Michael and all his siblings simultaneously wince. He’s not looking forward to it, even more so when the rotting smell from the inside of her suitcase rapidly spreads throughout the entire room. Michael wrinkles his nose in disgust and hears his brother whisper “I bet she’s going to give us severed limbs”.

The brightly and badly wrapped pictures come out of her badly worn suitcase in a never-ending stream, and with each discoloured parcel she produces, Michael feels fear and anticipation building up in his chest. (He was ten fucking years old so he was still allowed to _look forward_ to presents, no matter who they are from.)

“This is for you kiddo,” she says, and Michael offers her a scowl as he snatches the blue and gold (what kind of wrapper is that, where the hell did she even get these things from?) parcel from her and shakes it vigorously. It makes no sound except for the soft _swish swish swish_ of the paper crumpling beneath his tiny ten-year-old fingers.

His siblings are already ripping apart their wrapping papers and unboxing their presents, reacting to the items with various degrees of excitement and disappointment (and outright disgust, from the look of his eldest sister’s expression at the Barbie Doll that’s hidden beneath her green and yellow wrapping). And as he tears apart the paper, something brown and green peeks through his fingers, stirring up dread and churning it in the bottom of his stomach.

No fucking way.

The tattered remains of the wrappings fall away to reveal the even more tattered remains of an old christmas sweater that has seen one too many years. There are moth bitten holes in the sleeves that have been messily patched up with old scraps of cloths and clumsy stitches, and the cigarette stench that clings to the fabric is _definitely_ never going away, it makes Michael’s eyes water and bile rise up and out of his throat. He swallows it down with much effort.

“Oh,” and his father is taking the abso-fucking-lutely disgusting piece of clothing from his hands, a small fond expression on his face that momentarily turns into a cringe as the full force of the stench hits him. “I remember this.” Michael frowns at the prospect of owning something that was previously his dad’s because _what the fuck_? “Your grandma bought this for me when I was about your age.” And then there’s that smile again, that’s fond and oddly _relieved_.

There is a small nudge from his mum that makes Michael growl again because _he’s supposed to thank his grandma for an old hand me down?_

“Thanks,” he finally mutters under his breath with some difficulty, growling as smoke stained fingers pet lightly at his hair.

To make matters worse, his mother starts tugging the the sweater from between his grip. “Try it on, I’m sure your grandma would love to see you in it.”

And as she starts to fit the disgusting, terrible-smelling, ugly and wretched christmas sweater over his head, he fights, tiny ten-year-old fists flailing, legs kicking as he screams murder. It takes all three adults and ten minutes before they get his head in, and then another fifteen for the whole sweater to be fitted on properly.

“It’s a perfect fit!” his grandma booms, looking extremely pleased with herself. Michael picks at the cotton, scrunching up his nose in disgust at the scent that is now embedded in his skin, throat desperately working against the breakfast that’s trying to force its way out of his stomach.

Someone had grabbed a camera as his siblings stand around him in a half circle, smirking and pointing, laughter on the edge of their lips. And Michael hates this, hates christmas, hates fucking christmas sweaters as flash after flash goes off and the stale scent of nicotine sticks tight to his skin.

(His mother makes him wear it every year after that, and when his grandma died and he grew out of his old sweater, his mother buys him new sweaters each christmas. It becomes a family tradition, one that his siblings still give him trouble for, one that he can’t fucking escape.)

And that’s the story about the christmas sweaters.

 

_One awkward silence and two hopes_

_You cry yourself to sleep, staying up, waiting by the phone_

_All I want this year is for you to dedicate_

_Your last breathe to me before you bury yourself alive_

 

The first call comes two days after Gavin leaves.

He’s lounging about, countless empty cans of beer strewn across the floor because he just _can’t_ be bothered, some terrible show blaring on the television. The hours have passed by in a blur, but he doesn’t care, just mashes his face into the side of the couch and attempt to down more of the beer in the can in his hand.

The phone starts buzzing when he’s half done, and he stares blankly at the screen as the end credits start rolling on screen. The first thought that entires his head is _who the fuck could that be?_ and when he sees the name lighted up on the screen ( _Gavin_ ), he listens to the soothing buzzing and mindlessly swirls the can of beer in his hand. _It’s almost empty_ , he thinks through the loud buzzing of his phone, turning onto his back and finishing the rest in one go.

The buzzing stops.

He sighs into the empty apartment, blindly reaching for the remote and turning the television off, swapping the remote in his hand for another can of beer.

The buzzing starts again not five minutes later, and Michael watches, mesmerised, as the phone shifts on the coffee table.

 _He’s not answering_ , he tells himself, _He’s not fucking answering_. Instead, he counts the seconds, _one two three four five_ until the phone stops buzzing again. A beat, and then it lights up with a new voice message.

He debates picking up the voice message that’s still stubbornly lighted up on the screen. Taking another swig of beer, he stares at the ceiling, fingers absentmindedly drumming against his thigh. He could, maybe, possibly, could.

He could listen to the message just _once_.

But listening to it will just mean that he’s admitting it, the gnawing empty feeling that bites away at the edges of his chest. He takes another sip of his beer; at least the alcohol numbs most of the unease that’s clawing its way out of his ribcage.

All the fucking feelings he has to deal with.

The phone doesn’t ring again for the rest of the night, but in the haze of the alcohol, his fingers find his phone and plays back the message, once, out loud, as he feels himself slowly drift off to sleep.

( _Michael? Look, I just– Call me back when you can okay?_ )

 

_Don't come home for Christmas_

_You're the last thing I wanna see_

_Underneath the tree_

_Merry Christmas, I could care less_

 

They put him in a christmas sweater in their first christmas short.

The material itches and Michael complains too much and too little about it. Kara forces it on him anyway, and Lindsay keeps cooing at him throughout the entire shoot. At least there’s no stench, no suffocating tightness that threatens to swallow him when he sits in the too-big armchair. There is just Barbra grinning at him, and Gavin’s face, red with laughter on the other side of the camera.

That makes him crack a grin.

Everything goes smoothly (thank _god_ ) and he’s up and out of his seat before he knows it. Gavin meets him halfway out of the room, slinging an arm around his shoulder, and if the little contact makes the hair on the back of his neck stand, he doesn’t comment on it.

“Michael,” Gavin grins, expression amused. He’s probably laughing at him but _fuck that_ , because Gavin is looking at him, smile wide as he messes up Michael’s hair.

“Quit it asshole,” Michael grumbles, shoving him half-heartedly with a matching grin still stuck on his face.

And he _wishes_ the fucking christmas sweater could be off and away so he can feel the warmth of Gavin’s arm against his shoulder, but makes do with the weight as he continues walking out of the room. “Michael,” Gavin giggles again, which makes Michael roll his eyes in mock annoyance.

“Are you gonna just keep saying my name?” he replies with an elbow to Gavin’s side. They stop their bantering as Gus passes by, both mock saluting him with Michael congratulating himself at the evident _I’m-not-in-the-mood-to-deal-with-these-two-idiots_ expression he gives them at their antics.

They don’t talk for long, and soon Gavin has his arm slung over his shoulder again as he rambles about anything and everything, Michael absently nodding along and humming in agreement. The words wash over him in a wave, and he absently tugs at the sleeve of the christmas sweater.

Wait a minute.

Fuck.

He stops in the middle of the hallway, causing Gavin to bump into him.

“What’s wrong Michael?” (Little did he know that these were the words that would mar their relationship when it happens.)

They pause, Michael’s face flushing red from embarrassment as Gavin watches him curiously. “Michael are you okay?” He doesn’t respond as he starts pulling the christmas sweater over his head.

There is this moment where it’s just Michael tugging his arms out of the sweater and all he can smell is cotton (with a phantom cigarette stench just _there_ somewhere). But then there is a pair of hands pushing his hands down, fighting him as he tries to get the fucking thing off, and he hears through the suffocating cotton muffled “No!”s and “Don’t take the bloody thing off you little tosspot!”

It takes some time before he finally gives in. “Jesus christ Gavin,” he pants after their little skirmish, breathless. “What the fuck was that about?”

But Gavin just shoots him an elusive smile and slings his arm around his shoulder and leads him back toward their shared office, Michael spluttering obscenities as he tries to ignore the warmth in his chest.

The fucking asshole.

(It’s only much later that he receives Gavin’s christmas gift, two days _after_ christmas, and it’s an ugly thing, a blue and red christmas sweater (“I swear I thought it was green Michael!”) with little reindeers decorating the strips of colour. Michael hates it, so fucking much, and stuffs it into the back of his wardrobe and _swears_ that he’s going to get wet bread as a present for Gavin next christmas.)

 

_Happy New Years, baby, you owe me_

_The best gift I will ever ask for_

_Don't call me up when the snow comes down_

_It's the only thing I want this year_

 

(He pretends it doesn’t fucking hurt, as the days and nights blend into one giant continuous stream of endless seconds, and minutes, and hours. He curls up on the couch, watches the light on his phone blink on and off and on and off. Let’s message after message lull him to sleep each night.

_Hey Michael? How are you?_

_Michael? Are you– never mind._

_Michael? Could you call back? There’s something important I need to tell you._

_How’s christmas back there? Is everything alright?_

_Michael? I miss you._

_I–_

_Call me back?)_

 

_One awkward silence and two hopes_

_You cry yourself to sleep, staying up, waiting by the phone_

_And all I want this year is for you to dedicate_

_Your last breathe to me before you bury yourself alive_

 

Gavin’s christmas sweater smells _different_.

It’s not a _bad_ different, just _different_. Michael catalogues this when he finds the horrendous thing hiding in the back of his closet, and manages to yank it out from underneath his pile of clothes.

It’s in the middle of summer, and he’s sitting in his living room with a lap-full of christmas sweater that smells _okay_ bordering on _good_. He just stares at it, considers it, brings it up to his nose for an experimental sniff and wonders at the lack of tobacco aftertaste in his mouth. _It’s probably the mothballs in the closet doing their job_ is the first thing he thinks. And then it’s followed by a _Maybe it’s Gav– no_ that makes him shake his head.

_Mothballs. Great stuff._

The doorbell rings and he dumps the piece clothing on the sofa as he makes to open the door, trying desperately to ignore the sudden appreciation he has for christmas sweaters. He still hates the fucking things, don’t get him wrong, but _okay_ the colours were kind of nice and the material wasn’t _too bad_ on this one and holy fuck.

He is really fucked up in the head.

The war is still raging in his brain when he pulls the door open and sees Gavin Free ( _Well– wait what was I thinking about again?_ ) standing with his hands in his pockets and rocking back and forth on his heels. “Ready to go?”

Michael grins and nods, going back to grab his stuff and resolutely ignoring the the way Gavin’s gaze is drawn to the red and blue apparel on his couch.

He shuts the door tight behind him. “I thought you hated christmas sweaters?” Gavin asks after beat, which makes Michael groan.

“Are we seriously doing this? I was just going to pretend you didn’t notice it.”

“But Michael–”

“ _Let’s go_.”

And the rest of the day becomes a blur of swimming and skin and sun and skin and alcohol and _skin_ that Michael happily loses himself in, humming loudly and dancing wildly by the poolside as the drinks kick in and start numbing his senses. The last thing he remembers is a smudge of _Gavin_ across the bright landscape of that summer afternoon, arms wrapped around his waist as they fall into the water together, and there’s just so much _skin_ everywhere that Michael can’t help the flex of his fingers against tan skin, the feel of warmth under his palm. He pulls them both underwater together.

There is a surge, a shift in the undercurrents, and suddenly all Michael can see and feel is _Gavin_ , lips against his as his fingers press into his shoulders, holding on tight. He grins through the air bubbles leaving their mouths and noses and wraps his arms around Gavin’s waist and pulls him impossibly closer, trying to fight off the lack of air that is crushing his lungs.

Even as they break through the surface, gasping and spluttering for air, there is laughter dancing in Gavin’s eyes and his cheeks are flushed red; he looks like a lovesick idiot.

Michael tells him so.

Gavin just grins and doesn’t retort, and Michael figures, _yeah, it’s probably because he looks like one too_.

 

_Don't come home for Christmas_

_You're the last thing I wanna see_

_Underneath the tree_

_Merry Christmas, I could care less_

 

Lindsay shows up one day. “It’s christmas eve,” she says as she lifts his head and places it on her lap.

He must look a mess, still in his sleepwear, empty cans of beer strewn everywhere. She cards her fingers through his hair anyway, murmurs soft nothings as he clutches her jeans a little tighter and tries not to think.

In all honesty, he doesn’t know why he’s so upset, it’s not like they’ve broken up or anything (it sure feels like they have), and it’s not like he’s in love with Gavin or anything (well, _maybe_ ). So he’s confused, confused about the ache in his chest and the churning in his gut. He’s not afraid Gavin will run into someone else’s arms ( _Dan_ ) or that he’ll realise he’s not actually gay and find some pretty lady and settle down ( _Meg_ ), so he doesn’t understand the pounding in his chest and the beer in his hands.

He’s drowning his sorrows, but why?

“It’ll be okay,” Lindsay tells him. But he knows it won’t be. He tries to her, he really does, that Gavin hasn’t called in 12 hours, and that’s the longest time he’s had to wait so far (not that he’s been counting or anything). “He’s coming home soon.”

Except he may not, because something ended the day he walked into the airplane, something ended the day they began. Gavin’s parents always wanted him to marry a girl, settle down and start a family, and Gavin himself was always so terrified of people finding out about them that they had only mutually agreed to tell Geoff and Burnie. (Even Lindsay was not supposed to know, but she was like a sister to Michael so _of course_ she had to know.)

Michael hates the fear that crosses Gavin’s face when he brings it up, hates the way he cringes and withdraws, sits with that little bit of space in between them that makes Michael feel like he’s pushing him miles and miles away. He doesn’t want Gavin to feel this way, so scared and insecure all the fucking time, plus he’s so _so_ tired of hiding what they have, not being able to hold hands when they go out or give him a quick peck on the cheek when he sends him home. He doesn’t want to be the cause of such distress and fear. Gavin was usually so clingy and cuddly by nature, but once they got together he’s just _terrified_ of touching him in public.

(“We might as well not be together at all,” he’d growled out once when they were pushed up against each other in the supply closet in the office. “You touched me more when we weren’t seeing each other, and now it’s apparently so fucking hard for you.”

He doesn’t get an answer, is distracted by Gavin’s hands running all over him now that no one can see them, and ends up not getting one when they finally leave the closet thoroughly ravished.

Gavin disappears for a long time into the toilet, and doesn’t come back until he’s completely normal again, red lips and hickeys covered up with a bright smile in place.

Michael doesn’t say anything about it.)

 _Maybe I should end it_ , he tries to say, eyes still fixed on the phone lying on the coffee table. _13 hours. 13 fucking hours._

And as Lindsay continues talking to him, empty assurances that leaves Michael even more hollow on the inside than before, he continues staring at the blank screen on his phone and focuses on the feel of fingers through his hair.

(He imagines them a little longer, nails slightly shorter and blunter, and finally falls into a dreamless sleep.)

 

_Don't come home for Christmas_

_You're the last thing I wanna see_

_Underneath the tree_

_(Don't come home for Christmas)_

_Merry Christmas, I could care less_

 

The first fight they have is over something stupid.

Gavin doesn’t want sprinkles on his ice cream.

Michael says _Why not? Sprinkles are fucking awesome_.

So he goes off and buys ice cream with sprinkles for Gavin anyway, which makes Gavin angry.

Gavin says Michael never listens.

Michael says Gavin never gives things a shot.

(Who knows? He might like the sprinkles on this ice cream if he would _just fucking try it_.)

They don’t talk to each other the rest of the day.

(And the next time they meet, nothing is solved.

But who the fuck cares? It’s not like it’s actually a big problem anyway right?)

 

_Don't come home for Christmas_

_You're the last thing I wanna see_

_Underneath the tree_

_(Don't come home for Christmas)_

_Merry Christmas, I could care less_

 

Gavin comes back today.

Michael is still on the couch, arms tangled in the christmas sweater Gavin bought for him one christmas ago. There are kids laughing outside, bells ringing, a slight frost in the air.

His phone lights up with one message.

_Merry christmas Michael._

(He doesn’t know why, but it feels like a goodbye.)


End file.
